


About Today

by Anonymous



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Malex, Sort Of, angst till it ain't, post season one finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Every time Michael leaves, Alex tries to pinpoint the exact moment when they switched roles. When the one who waited became the one who walked away. When the one who left started staying behind.or, Alex reaches a breaking point.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 40
Kudos: 183
Collections: Anonymous





	About Today

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisexualalienblast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualalienblast/gifts).



> This story is inspired by a beautiful lyric [gifset](https://bisexualalienblast.tumblr.com/post/187319001598/you-just-walked-away-and-i-just-watched-you-what) Amanda made several months ago to the National's "About Today." I meant to finish it by her birthday, but alas, it is now a belated birthday present. I love you Amanda, you are my perennial source of inspiration and I am so grateful for you.

**_i.  
  
_**It began the night or rather the morning that Alex scraped Michael off the sidewalk outside the Saturn’s Rings.

Michael was bleeding heavily from a gash across his forehead and his hair was full of broken glass. He was still laughing when Alex hauled him to his feet. “I can see colors you’ve never dreamt of, Private,” Michael slurred. “With every shot of whiskey, a new color appears, and the lost contours of the world become sharper, I have to reconstruct everything, Alex, the whole universe, I _was_ reconstructing it, there, at the bar, except the reconstruction got interrupted, I made a new friend, whasisname, I forget, his girlfriend had the most insane breasts, I forget her name, too, everything keeps slipping and sliding, Alex, she had a peanut stuck in her cleavage and she asked me to get it for her, I used my tongue and she tasted like lotion, and then my friend, whasisname, her boyfriend, he came back, and he smashed a bottle on my head, I think he misunderstood the situation, she asked very nicely if I could—”

Alex brought him back to the cabin. He sobered him up and painstakingly extracted tiny shards of glass from his scalp. Michael sat quietly while he worked, and when Alex had finished Michael dropped to his knees and blew him.

Then he got up and left. 

That was the first time.

They should have talked about it.

But Max was dead, and Alex didn’t have the heart to tell Michael to go when he turned up at the cabin, drunk and desperate. And _kept_ turning up. Less drunk, as the weeks wore on. Still desperate, though.

They were not _not_ together. But they were not _together._

Michael had made that very clear. Michael was not Alex’s boyfriend, and Alex was not Michael’s anything, except the cabin smelled like Michael and the bookcase was filling with Michael’s books—aerospace engineering, applied physics—and Michael’s oil-stained jeans and filthy t-shirts accumulated in the laundry hamper, and there was Alex’s side of the bed and Michael’s side of the bed which was, fittingly, the side closest to the door.

Because Michael never stayed the night.

Every time Michael left, Alex tried to pinpoint the exact moment when they had switched roles. When the one who waited became the one who walked away. When the one who left started staying behind.

Once upon a time, Michael had woken to find Alex still in his bed come morning and whispered, awestruck, _you stayed._ But that was months ago, another lifetime, when Alex was the one who left. Now Michael left, and Alex didn’t read books about aerospace engineering or applied physics, and there was no reason for him to sleep on one side of the bed or even think of the other side as Michael’s side, because they were not _together_. Michael did not live here, and Michael always left.

They ate, they had sex, not always in that order, and then Michael went. Alex watched from the bed as he got dressed. Michael was much slower at putting his clothes on than he was at taking them off. He pulled his jeans up with a kind of languid grace, then stopped to arch his back and stretch his arms over his head before he bothered with the zipper and the button and finally refastened that weighty belt buckle. He sat on the edge of the bed to lace up his boots, and last of all he put on his shirt. Tucking away his skin, all his lovely golden skin that he thrived off putting on display.

Alex knew Michael wouldn’t stay. He opened his mouth to ask and then he remembered it was useless. So he closed his mouth and he let Michael go.

He weathered the nightmares alone.

Michael never stayed and he never promised to come back—though at this point Alex was reasonably certain that he would. There were Michael’s books, for one thing, and his clothes. And even though they never talked about it, there were more and more nights when Michael became softer after they fucked. Tender, almost. He held Alex close and combed his fingers through his hair, and he waited until Alex’s breathing had evened out before he slipped away.

They were not _together_. But they were not _not_ together, either.

After dinner, sometimes, they practiced guitar. Passing Alex’s battered old acoustic back and forth. Michael complained about the weakness of his left hand up on the frets; Alex consoled him that he made up for it with his wickedly precise right hand on the strings.

They started quarreling again. Alex considered that progress, because right after Max died Michael had been too wild and sloppy to get into it with him properly. He would just say _whatever man_ and walk out that much quicker. But now they were back to arguing, routine exchanges over the little things they detested about one another: Michael never picked up after himself, he drank too much, and the rule of attrition didn’t quite apply to sobriety; Alex, despite his recent reentry into civilian life, was still hardwired to the atomic clock and lived according to a timetable. They took turns, Alex’s poisonous adjectives whispered sharply across his pillow to Michael’s, Michael’s silence like a dull shield in his face, and then they traded off, and Michael was the one cussing out Alex while Alex stared blankly at the ceiling. One active, the other passive, both of them equally aggressive.

It felt good. Breaking each other, emotionally decimating one another again and again. Allowing themselves to be broken.

Alex wondered: why was there always a little hum of hate running alongside love?

They went to the supermarket. Michael started complaining about Alex’s choice of something, maybe pasta sauce, maybe ice cream, and Alex wondered if this was what it felt like to shop as a family. He experienced remorse, almost instantaneous, at having the thought, because it wasn’t like Michael had ever said it back, about Alex being _his family, too_ , and all they were doing was buying groceries for dinner. Then Alex felt a much deeper feeling—maybe a blow of nostalgia for a future that wasn’t his, or maybe the inner vacuum of melancholia, sucking up presentness and spreading absence—… and then Michael asked why was Alex wearing such a long face whilst staring at a pile of satsumas, and he slapped Alex’s shoulder and hustled him over to the checkout line.

Alex might not have been a genius like Michael, but he was smart enough to know that beginnings, middles, and ends were only a matter of hindsight. Narrative happened in retrospect, wrapping itself selectively around the elements that seemed relevant, bypassing all the others.  
  
  
**_ii._**  
  
Michael had keys, though he never used them, didn’t need to: he always unlocked the front door with his mind.

Alex was presiding over a pot of boiling water, about to add the spaghetti, when Michael came in and slouched against the wall. He looked sensational, loitering there in Alex’s kitchen with his hip-shot stance and his half-buttoned flannel, gazing at Alex with that heavy-lidded, provocative stare. “Hey,” he said.

Alex looked away, into the pot. He was on crutches tonight, tri-legged and bad-tempered about it. 

“Liz and I spent the whole day playing around with isotopes, and all we managed to do was turn a sample of the pod goo radioactive,” Michael said. “Fucking waste of time, and Ortecho had the cojones to blame me for it, like it’s _my_ fault Max didn’t wake up today, like I haven’t told her a million fucking times that standard chemistry doesn’t apply to alien matter, and then she was like, ‘ay que la chingada, Michael, maybe if you followed the scientific method for once in your life,’ so I reminded her that trial-and-fucking- _error_ is also part of the—” he broke off suddenly. “Alex, what’s wrong?”

Because Alex was clutching the counter so tightly his knuckles had gone white, and his breath came in ragged little gulps. _I’m snapping_ , he had the presence of mind to think, before he blew up the fragile détente they had so carefully maintained by not talking about it _._

His voice emerged hard as military-grade steel: “What are you doing here, Guerin? What are _we_ doing? Like, what even is this?”

Sometimes Michael’s eyes went all dreamy and soft, only to ignite with joy or rage, and blaze, like the meteoric rise of souls too bold and fierce to go gentle—what was it _?_ — _gentle into that good night._ But now they were dark wells of hurt.

“I can go, if that’s what you want,” he offered, a note of something fragile and tense and unforgiving creeping into his tone.

Alex stared at him, incredulous. Michael going was the very thing he dreaded most of all, even if he knew it to be inevitable because Michael did it every. single. goddamn. night.

“ _Go_?” he echoed. “Michael, I never want you to go! All day long, I knock around this fucking cabin, up to my eyeballs in government plots and alien conspiracies, waiting for you to come home, so we can spend a few hours _not_ talking before you disappear again!”

“Well, I never asked you to wait, did I?” Michael’s face twisted, cruel in a way that was new to him since Caulfield, since Max. “I never said I expected anything from you, Alex, not a damn thing, and I certainly didn’t give you the right to expect anything from me. We don’t talk ’cause every time we open our mouths we hurt each other worse, and Christ, sometimes it hurts bad enough just _looking_ at you.”

Alex received his words like a spray of shrapnel. 

“We’re so broken, Alex,” Michael went on, his voice softening but more terrible somehow. “It’s one motherfucking thing after another with us, you know? And I keep thinking about that P, the _post_ , in PTSD, and how I don’t have that yet. Because here I am, with you, just wallowing in that good old-fashioned TSD, like, it’s all happening, baby. Nowhere near post-trauma.”

Alex realized he was still holding the wooden stirring spoon, so he set it down carefully and turned off the heat. There was no shame in giving up, his brain told him. He had tried staying; look where it had gotten them. He needed to take back the role that had always been his—and walk away. No more grocery shopping, no more squabbling over marinara sauce. No more engineering textbooks, no more isotopes. No more not _not_ together.

Just— _not._

Alex pushed away from the counter, forgetting he was on one leg, forgetting the crutches propped against the wall.

And he fell.

Or at least he began the process of falling, but then the air caught him.

He wasn’t falling, he was floating in a most peculiar way, like David Bowie sang in one of Michael’s favorite songs.

The air propped him up while the crutches floated over and slid themselves under his arms. Gravity returned in increments, giving him time to readjust to it.

And Michael was still standing there. Hands outstretched, like he’d wanted to catch Alex himself before he thought better of it. Something frantic and terrified was dancing in his eyes. He took one step forward, and another, and then he was cradling Alex’s face in his gentle calloused hands. His lips were trembling and he didn’t say anything, just looked at him.

“You’re the one who walks away now,” Alex croaked. “I know I deserve it and everything—fair’s fair, but—I watch you go, and I lose you again every single night.”

Michael blinked, and a wave of tears cascaded down his cheeks, like he’d been holding back entire oceans by sheer force of will. But the waters left a kind of clarity in their wake. “You never ask me to stay,” he said. He sounded sad, but hopeful, too.

“I gave you keys,” Alex said, indignant and sniffling, and Michael reached up and wiped Alex’s nose with his own sleeve. “I… your stupid books are on the shelves; you think _I_ read about rocket launchers or special relativity in my spare time? We go grocery shopping together, we—” Alex shook his head. “My god, Guerin, of course I want you to stay, you’re supposed to be living here with me.”

Michael released a watery chuckle. “Fucking unbelievable,” he said, and surged in. Surged in—and didn’t kiss him. He pressed their cheeks together instead, murmuring low and rough in his ear. “And this is where we always go wrong, isn’t it? We’re not supposed to have sex right now, we’re supposed to talk it out and agree to start over, to go slow and not have sex till we’re good and ready _—_ ” He made a guttural sound somewhere between a growl and a moan. “But Alex, I want, I want— _you,_ please, darlin’, can we _please_ just have sex and then we can do and not do all those other things I just said, and—”

Alex kissed him. It was desperate, like it always was between them, but there was no riptide. “As long as we do—talk, I mean—the order doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“There’s the Alex I know and love,” Michael said, which was quite a thing to say, except it wasn’t, because he’d said _love_ twice since they got back not _not_ together, not that Alex was counting. Once during an argument, when he’d spat out the self-lacerating phrase “seventeen, stupid, and in love with you,” and another time when he was drunk and the drink had made him philosophical, and he’d explained to Alex that the two of them had fallen in love completely, irrationally, unironically, and head-first, like a rock might fall in love with a bird, not knowing who the rock was and who the bird. Alex lay awake long after Michael had left, churning that one over and over in his mind: not just who was the rock and who was the bird, but _why_ a rock and a bird in the first place. He’d never figured it out.

Unless—

All this time, maybe they actually _had_ been talking to each other. Talking and arguing and cooking and reading and playing guitar and shopping for groceries. There were comings and goings but no staying, because Alex had never asked… and so they occupied that liminal space between _not_ and _together_ —

“You’re the Michael I know and love,” Alex replied, inanely, but Michael smiled his real smile, the one that made his eyes crinkle up at the corners. Alex hadn’t seen that smile since Caulfield, when Michael smiled at his mother through the glass, and it really was like the sun breaking through the clouds to see him smile again.

He laced his hands behind Michael’s neck and pulled him in to lick the words into his mouth, _I love you._

Michael laughed, softly, happily, and licked them back.

Michael kissed him again outside the bedroom, knocking his legs apart and planting himself between them. Pushing in even closer. Laughing against Alex’s lips like the absolute bastard he was, draping his body all over Alex’s, making sure Alex could feel every bit of him, hard and hot and all _his_.

Alex had no intention of letting them come like this, rubbing against each other in the doorframe like the teenagers they most definitely were not and had not been for ten years. Michael seemed to be of a similar mind, because he began walking them towards the bed. The crutches fell to the floor with a clatter, and Alex was flopping down with Michael on top of him before he could sort out the logistics of how they’d gotten there.

He took in the sight of Michael above him, straddling his lap, regal and reverent all at once, curls a mess from Alex’s clutching hands. And Alex wondered if Michael might give over tonight and let him lead. Because in those long months of _not_ and _not not_ , Michael had existed in a state of perpetual motion, undressing Alex and overrunning his naked body with more aplomb than revolutionary troops in a city that had already surrendered. Like he was afraid Alex might change his mind and kick him out of bed if Michael didn’t give it to him hard and ask for harder in return.

Michael licked his bottom lip and tipped his head to the side.

“Tell me what to do,” he said.

Alex sputtered. “Guerin, did you—”

Michael rolled his eyes. “You said it out loud,” he said. “You always do that when you’re turned on. You forget if you’re thinking or talking, usually you’re talking, and when I answer, you freak out, like, ‘Guerin, did you get inside my—’”

“Oh, shut up,” Alex groaned. He dragged his nails up and down Michael’s thighs.

“C’mon, Alex. Tell me what to do.” Michael rocked his hips slightly.

“Clothes.”

“Mine? Yours?”

“Both,” Alex decided. “Yours first.”

Michael stripped—maybe in another lifetime he could be persuaded to learn the slow art of the striptease—and left his clothes in a careless pile. Alex thought it wouldn’t kill him to _fold_ something for once, but he was diverted by how very enticing Michael looked, standing naked at the foot of the bed as he pulled Alex’s sweatpants down.

“Now what?” Michael said.

Alex patted his thighs. _Come here._

Michael was astride his lap again in an eye-blink, cock pressing against Alex’s as he tugged Alex’s shirt over his head. Then he started moving his hips, and everything went slantwise.

Alex sighed rapturously, resting his forehead against Michael’s shoulder. “So _easy_ ,” he breathed.

“What’s easy?” Michael’s voice rumbled in his chest. “Me?”

“What?” Alex sat upright, seeking Michael’s eyes with his own. Michael seemed to be staring at a spot on the wall over his left shoulder. “No, what are you even——Michael—that’s not what I—” he was stammering, appalled at himself for the words that had tripped so thoughtlessly off his tongue. “I don’t mean you’re easy like—like, uh…”

“Promiscuous?” Michael offered. Then he grinned. “Alex, it’s okay. Relax.”

Alex smacked his arm lightly. “I’m trying to dig myself out here.” 

“You don’t—”

“Let me talk, Guerin. It’s important, if I could just figure out how to say it.” He ran his hands over Michael’s arms, feeling the shape and definition of the muscles under his skin. “ _Easy_ , like you make it look easy, like… you don’t hide how much you want, um, me, you just wear it on your face, and you’re not self-conscious about letting me see. Letting me look.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “Should I be?”

“No! God, no, never. I just wish… I wish it were easier for _me_ to show _you,_ ” Alex flushed, fumbling, “how much I… I mean, I should’ve just asked you to stay, forever ago, and now…”

Michael traced the outline of Alex’s mouth with his fingers, then slid two of them inside.

“… how much I _want_ …” the words came out garbled around Michael’s fingers. “…more like you— _open_ —”

“But I’m not open, Alex, not even a little bit. Not yet.” Michael took his fingers out of Alex’s mouth, flashing him his biggest, smuggest smirk, and reached behind himself with his wet hand.

Alex jolted beneath him, grabbing onto his hips. “Jesus, Michael.” 

“Yeah, darlin’?” Michael shifted on his lap; Alex could feel when he added a second finger. And Alex knew he could take it, knew Michael liked a bit of edge spicing up his pleasure when he got fucked. But he wanted Michael raw on something else tonight.

So he wrapped his hand around Michael’s wrist, forcing him to stop.

Michael looked at him questioningly. Alex cupped his face, and Michael leaned into his palm, eyes softening when Alex ran his thumb over his cheekbone.

“Let me,” Alex said.

He opened Michael up carefully on two, three fingers and far too much lube, allowing his eyes to linger all over Michael’s body, his throat, his chest, his nipples, the straining muscles of his abdomen, the precum beading at the head of his cock.

“I can remember the future,” Michael said conversationally, like Alex didn’t have three fingers squeezed inside of him. Alex stretched his fingers slightly; Michael’s smile broadened. “It’s one of my superpowers.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, I’m sitting on top of the only person I’ve ever loved, in what could rightly be called an _amorous mode—_ ”

Alex laughed. He always went into sex thinking what a serious business it was, yet when he and Michael were at their best, they usually dissolved into laughter before the deed was even halfway done.

 _the only person I’ve ever loved_ …

Michael was still smiling down at him, wolfish and tender in the same curve of lips. “In an amorous mode,” he repeated, “which I’m guessing will continue in one configuration or another till the sun comes up.” The inside of his body was ridiculously hot and tight, _too_ tight, so Alex stretched his fingers a little further. “And somehow I know that in the future I’ll remember right now,” Michael went on, bearing down on his fingers, “and I’ll know that it was this moment, today, that justified all our years of bullshit—how close we came to losing each other—and I’ll be grateful, just really fucking grateful, every time I remember right now.”

Michael said things like that sometimes, philosophical and cosmic and utterly preposterous—maybe because he was an alien, or maybe just because he was Michael.

But Alex didn’t want to think about how very, very close he’d come to losing him today; he only wanted to think about how he _hadn’t_. He loved Michael, and he said so, again, out loud, hoping it would be enough for now.

“I love you back.” Michael tugged at his wrist. “I’m ready now.”

When Alex managed to open his eyes, Michael had taken him all the way and was now crouched over him, breathing heavily. Alex raised his head a few inches and Michael dipped lower to meet him. They panted into each other’s mouths when Michael started moving in tiny circles.

And then he stopped.

“Whoooops,” Michael drawled, honey and molasses and everything else sticky and sweet Alex could think of in that one drawn-out syllable. “Forgot. Your show, sweetheart. Tell me what to do.”

_Tell me what to do._

Alex clung on to his hips, thinking. Michael looked awfully comfortable up there. _Easy._ He seemed to know exactly what to do with his body and how to do it, while Alex had spent a whole lifetime learning, and then another, learning all over again, with Michael, after he lost his leg.

“C’mon, Alex,” Michael said, and Alex relished the slight rasp creeping into his voice. “Sometime this millennium, ideally—”

“If you’re so desperate, Michael, just take what you need.”

It was a challenge. They both knew it, just like they both knew Michael was constitutionally incapable of backing down from one.

Alex watched, enraptured, as Michael tossed back his head, flinging the hair out of his eyes. He placed his palms on Alex’s chest, and he started moving. Slowly at first, taking the time to adjust, then faster and faster, losing himself in it. So tight around Alex, almost painfully so, his facing screwing up in a way that told Alex he was just as overwhelmed by the feeling of them, together, as Alex was.

Michael reached for his cock, and Alex decided he wasn’t having that. “You come like this or not at all,” he ordered, dragging Michael’s hand away.

Michael laughed. “Oh, just fucking watch me, Alex.”

Alex did. He watched; Michael watched him watch. Alex kept his focus lasered on Michael—every sound, every shiver, every bead of sweat—or else his own pleasure would engulf him and he’d come first, like he almost always did, before Michael could—

Michael did. All over Alex’s stomach, so tight around him that he all but forced him out.

 _Tell me what to do_ was promptly discarded as Michael started kissing his way down Alex’s neck, his chest, through the mess on his belly, lower. Closing his mouth around him and swallowing him down. Michael’s fingers skimmed over his chest, teasing his nipples, caressing his throat, tracing his lips, pressing in. Alex came like that, an abbreviated ten second later, with Michael’s mouth around him, Michael’s fingers on his tongue, Michael’s blazing eyes locked on his.

After cleaning them up with somebody’s t-shirt, flung haphazardly to the floor—Alex didn’t dwell on it—Michael sprawled across his chest, tangled their legs together, and guided Alex’s hand into his hair.

They dozed, or at least Alex did, because when he resurfaced, Michael was lying on his side, golden in the lamplight, watching him with soft, dreamy eyes.

“You’re still here,” Alex said, sleep-fuddled. “You _stayed._ ”

“That’s my line,” Michael said. He reached out, ran his hand down Alex’s arm.

“Michael…”

“I didn’t mean what I said before, about us being broken,” Michael said, and it took Alex a moment to drag his brain back online and remember which _before_ Michael was even talking about. _We’re so broken, Alex._ It made his chest ache, and Michael looked very serious now, as he propped his head on his hand and met Alex’s eyes across the pillow. “But I’m scared that _I_ might be, you know. A drunk fuckin’ mess of TSD.”

Those words gave him a thrill of dread, but his brain was working quickly now, counting, tabulating. “Guerin, it’s been, what—two weeks? three?—since you last came home drunk.”

Michael scrunched up his face. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Alex said with conviction, positive now that it had been nineteen days since Michael had rolled up with more than two drinks inside him, and much, much longer since the days of broken glass and bloody everything and hair-trigger eruptions of temper. “Like, we’re still pretty fucked up, I am, you are, but—maybe not quite as bad as you think?” he finished hopefully.

“Maybe,” Michael said, expression unreadable.

“I mean,” Alex went on, “it would be stupid to pretend that everything’s fine, especially with Max still—”

“—dead—”

“But we’re not… _not_ okay, you know? Or at least we’re getting there.”

“We’re okay,” Michael said.

“I think so, yeah.”

“Does that mean I got my P?”

“Your what?”

“My _post_ , in PTS—”

“PTSD is not an Eagle Scouts badge, Guerin, it’s a serious mental illness,” Alex said sternly, but he relented when Michael grimaced and looked away. “You’re probably the only person in the history of, like, forever, who’s been happy about it.”

“C’mon baby.” Michael was all smiles again, and his tone turned coaxing. “Let me have this, okay? I’ve been looking forward to that P all my life. ’Cause I’ve never gotten to be post-anything, I’m always up to my eyeballs in shit. Post means… being beyond. A chance at something new, maybe. So can you please be a good sport about it and welcome me to the party?” 

“Welcome to the party,” Alex said, with some asperity, but Michael looked so happy about it, like the little kid he’d never really been, that Alex just had to lean in and kiss his nose. And then his lips. And then one thing led to another, and, just like Michael had prophesied, they quickly found themselves in another _amorous mode_ , and another, till the first blush of dawn was creeping around the curtains they’d never bothered to close. 

“Couple hours, then we’ll go for churro pancakes.” Michael yawned. “Better pick up some groceries on the way home, too…” 

“Sounds good, cowboy.” Alex curled around Michael’s back, burying his face in his damp curls. His arm was tucked under Michael’s and they were holding hands, loose and easy.

Alex felt a faint tug of loneliness then, somewhere in his midsection. It perplexed him. Why today? he wondered, why now, the day after the day they would remember as the day that changed everything—at least according to Michael, who could remember the future. Why couldn’t this be enough, what more could he possibly—?

Oh, how he wished he and Michael could merge into _MichaelandAlex_ , that boundless entity of his imagination that subsumed any notion of separateness in absolute togetherness. He hated the idea of any space between himself and Michael, let alone the infinite expanse that separated two, well, separate people.

And yet… yesterday Michael had been far away. Today he wasn’t quite so far, he was secure in Alex’s arms. And Alex could live with that; he would have to. He lifted his head and peered out the window, watching the last of the morning stars fade, thinking how very different they looked today, just like David Bowie sang in that song Michael loved so much.

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY [BELATED] BIRTHDAY AMANDA. 
> 
> <3
> 
> \--Index--
> 
> HALLO SPACEBOY (archiveofourown.org/works/18249017)  
> BOYS KEEP SWINGING (archiveofourown.org/works/18279641)  
> WHAT YOU BREAK IS WHAT YOU GET (archiveofourown.org/works/18446210)  
> SATELLITE'S GONE (archiveofourown.org/works/18586075)  
> HELL AIN'T HALF FULL (archiveofourown.org/works/18794593)  
> THE LIGHT-YEARS (archiveofourown.org/works/19060417)  
> WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO THE TEENAGE DREAM (archiveofourown.org/works/19207141)  
> SUBSTITUTE (archiveofourown.org/works/19310578)  
> LOVE–>BUILDING ON FIRE (archiveofourown.org/works/21115067)  
> HAUNTED (archiveofourown.org/works/21426475)
> 
> Roswell Week 2019 (archiveofourown.org/series/1430260)  
> \- NO ALARMS AND NO SURPRISES, PLEASE  
> \- EVERY DAY IS MOTHER'S DAY  
> \- THIS IS HARDCORE  
> \- FIRESTARTERS  
> \- THE WORLD FORGETTING, BY THE WORLD FORGOT
> 
> Guerin Week 2019 (archiveofourown.org/series/1488182)  
> \- LOVING THE ALIEN  
> \- YOU GOT OLDER  
> \- IT'S GREAT WHEN YOU'RE STRAIGHT... YEAH  
> \- I'M PRETTY FUCKED UP  
> \- PUSH THE SKY AWAY  
> \- BRUISE EASY  
> \- INNUENDO


End file.
